by Rob J. Hayes
“You still blame yourself?” Langdon asks as he stops bouncing up and down on the screen and lets out a deep breath.
“It was my fault.”
“Yeah. It was. You fucked up. She paid the price.”
“This isn’t a pep-talk then?”
Langdon laughs. “Nope. It’s a job offer. The way I hear it, your income is about to take a steep dive. Perfect timing. I’ve got a couple of job openings and one of them is yours if you want it.”
My curiosity never lets go of a good mystery.
“Two job openings?”
“You watch any news?”
I shake my head.
Langdon snorts. “I’m not even sure I really know you anymore, Garrick. Well, my firm was tasked with protecting the Lunar ambassador. We saved him from a very embarrassing egg to the face incident. It was all over the news. Great publicity. One of my youngest, Alvarez, dived in front of the ambassador and took the egg for him. You can probably find the video on the net. It’s hilarious.”
“How does that lead to job openings?”
“Him and Batenburg went out drinking to celebrate and got into fight. Both of ’em got themselves stabbed by a group of Lunar reformists.” Langdon sighs and shakes his head. “Idiots. They’re gonna be laid up for a couple of weeks and I’ve got another job lined up. Two spots need filling.”
I shake my head. I’m long since out of the personal security game. Four years out of it. Back then, Langdon couldn’t have a Drone working for him and I couldn’t deal with the guilt. I still can’t.
“I’m not saying it’s a permanent place, Garrick. I’m saying I need a couple of good people on short notice and you were good people once. I think you still are.” He grins. “It’s good money, too.”
“Who’s it for?” I ask. I’m considering it. I have to now Pascal is dead. No other income and no money saved up. Most of everything I ever earned as a Drone has always gone to Susan and Summer. The rest I spend on expenses. Pent houses aren’t cheap and neither are things like memory blocks and simulated experiences.
I remember the nightmare. The terror. It was all a dream. A simulated experience. None of it was real. But it feels real. I shake my head. I need something to distract myself.
“Ahh.” Langdon waves a hand in front of the camera. “Some bigwig from Arkotech. They’ve got a big press conference coming up in a few days and want some extra security. They’re expecting protesters or something.”
Langdon probably doesn’t realise, he has no reason to, but Arkotech are the biggest developers of emotion harvesters in the world. They’ve been selling them on the black market for years. Every machine Pascal ever owned was made and maintained by them.
“I’ll do it,” I say, perhaps a little too eagerly. It’s a long shot, but maybe I can convince someone high up in Arkotech to harvest my recent emotions. Maybe I can be free again.
“Yeah?” Langdon lets loose a grin. “I knew I could count on you. Welcome back to the land of the living and all that, Garrick. I’ll send you over the full details and a list of current terminology. You’ll need a suit.”
“I remember.” I grin back at him.
“Yeah. Maybe, um,” he waves a couple of fingers in front of his eyes. “Maybe get some sleep first.”
I end the call and sit back in the chair, sipping at my coffee.
Hope. I hate hope.
Chapter 10
Stress: Gnawing. Debilitating. Like bony fingers closing in around your heart. Stress doesn’t sell at all anymore. At first it sold on the deep black market to psy ops and torturers. No respectable harvester will sell stress these days.
It’s been a long time since I last wore a suit. Wear one often enough and they start feeling like a second skin, or maybe a second mask. But there was never any reason for me to wear one as a Drone. None of the requests I fulfilled ever needed a suit. I suppose I’m lucky it still fits after so long. It feels a little tight around the neck though.
I fidget and pull at my collar, loosen my tie a little and glance around the monorail at the other passengers. A few of them glance away. Are they watching me? Paranoia isn’t an emotion, but it can be brought on by them. Stress, embarrassment, helplessness, worry. All emotions that can spark paranoia.
I go back to staring out the window, trying my best to ignore the other passengers and ignore the tightness of my collar. It’s entirely possible I’m not in quite as good shape as I was four years ago, or maybe I’m in better shape. Either way, my neck is bigger. Should have bought a new suit.
The city of Paris speeds by beneath me. Small, quaint buildings and old roads; winding instead of straight. Paris is in mid-development. Once the capital of old France, it soon became little more than a relic when country borders were abolished. Recently, companies like Arkotech have been coming back to it though, pumping money into the city and spurring on modern development.
I can see high-rises and skyscrapers growing out of the centre of the city. In places it almost looks like a bomb site. Old buildings in disrepair. Rubble where others used to stand. I saw a picture of old Paris once, a postcard, it was beautiful. It’s not beautiful anymore.
The monorail glides to a stop and people line up to get off. I join the queue. Some people don’t even bother to look up from their PDs as they exit the cart. Over one woman’s shoulder I see her typing a status onto her Me.com page. It’s mostly inane, saying she is stepping off the monorail and hopeful for a fun day at work. Some people narrate their entire lives online, sharing almost every thought, every action, every emotion. Some people spend more time on Me.com than they do out in the real world. Social media at its most encompassing.
There are some who fight against the social media giant. They claim Me.com is the latest enabler in an epidemic of pseudo-social interactions. They call themselves the Social Purists and they occasionally pepper a city in paper leaflets, hoping to spread the word, to bring people back to the real world and away from their net communities. It rarely works, most people don’t even notice the pamphlets. They’re too busy staring at their PDs.
The flow of the crowd carries me down the steps to the street level and I step aside, letting the crush pass me. It earns me a few strange looks. I don’t care. I don’t like the press of people. It makes me nervous, makes me irritated. Can’t afford to be either right now. Need to suppress my emotions until I can get them harvested.
My PD reads 8:27am. I have just thirty-three minutes to get to my destination and find Langdon. The press conference isn’t until 11am, but they’ll want security in place long ahead of that time. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the details have been in place for days already.
Even from the street level, I can see the Arkotech building. It’s one of the newest and one of the largest, rising up one hundred floors out of the two and three storeys around it. It dwarfs the rest of the city and looks thoroughly out of place. Giant letters grace the side of the building, lit up in modest powder blue. They read ‘The Ark’. Below the name of the building sits a billboard that spans at least forty floors. It’s running a series of adverts for Me.com, but I’ve no doubt it will be used in the press conference soon.
I hurry along and reach The Ark with ten minutes to spare. There’s a security perimeter set up and I have to flash the badge Langdon sent me in order to pass through. Once inside, I head straight towards the stage that’s been set up outside the front entrance. The large park, full of benches and plants and trees so green they must be modified, has been converted with a big metal stage set front and centre. It almost looks like a festival, only without any public and certainly no bands. Even as I think it, I see a set of drums carried one by one onto the stage.
“Garrick.” Langdon’s voice from behind. I’m still staring at the spectacle and wondering what sort of business hires a band to make an announcement about some new technology. A big hand slaps down onto my shoulder.
“It’s been a long time, Langdon,” I say, smiling despite myself. Positive emotions a
re usually easier to suppress than negative ones. Easier but not easy.
“Sure has,” Langdon agrees. He grabs hold of my other shoulder and turns me to face him. Then he steps in and gives me a bear hug that crushes the air from my lungs. “Glad you decided to rejoin the world, buddy.”
I’m not really sure it was a choice. It feels more like Langdon finally dragged me back into the world. And I feel very out of place in it. I miss my protected bubble of emotional decrepitude.
“What’s with the drums?” I ask as Langdon releases me and then pulls at my suit a little to ease out the crinkles. He was always like this with me, somewhere between a best friend and older brother. I regret falling out of contact for so long. Yet more guilt I’ve earned.
Langdon laughs and shakes his head. “Arkotech have hired Rain From Mars to open up the press conference with a few songs.”
I shrug.
“They’re huge,” Langdon says. “Or at least so Jessie says. I think I’ve heard one of their songs. Hated it. Shouted at her to turn it off. Next thing I know she’s slamming doors and posting on Me.com about how unfair I am. Crucified me on the net. That one post got about two thousand replies. Teenagers everywhere sent me hate mail. All because I told my daughter to turn off her music.”
I don’t know what to say so I just keep quiet. Langdon laughs.
“It’s alright. Everything on the net is a flash in a pan. Passed quickly. But for a few hours I felt very, uh, targeted. Come on. We’ve got a while yet, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”
Langdon starts away and I follow. My PD reads 8:55am. Just a couple of hours until the press conference. I wonder if I’ll be able to approach an Arkotech higher up before it starts. If not I’ll have to find one after. I have to find a way to rid myself of these emotions and soon.
There’s eight others in the detail and with myself and Langdon it makes ten. He introduces me to each member and I shake eight hands. I hope they can’t see the frustration and doubt in my eyes. I hate myself for feeling hopeful.
“You carrying?” Langdon asks.
I shake my head. He knows I’m not. I don’t even own a gun these days and the two I picked up at Pascal’s workshop I dumped in Mextown. It’s the easiest way to make sure they’re never found.
Langdon drags me aside from the others and picks up a small safety box. He shakes his head at me. “You remember how to use one of these things?” He opens up the box to reveal a small hand gun, a compac Glock with two magazines.
“Yeah, I remember,” I say as I reach into the box and pick up the pistol and the clips. “I even came prepared.” I pull at my jacket to reveal an empty shoulder holster.
“Good.” Langdon grins. “Just don’t shoot the band when they start playing. What about a vest?”
I nod. It’s an old vest and probably not nearly as bullet proof as it once was, but I’m hoping not to get shot at.
“Right then,” Langdon says as he turns back to the team. Everyone stops their chattering immediately and pays attention. Langdon has always had an air of command about him. Even now, bald and a little overweight, his voice demands obedience. “Thanks to Alverez and the egg, we’ve got ourselves a lovely prime spot.”
I look around the group as Langdon outlines our job. A motley collection of men and women with a range of ages and ethnic backgrounds. These people are some of the best security the private circuit has to offer. A lot has changed in just four years, I only recognise two faces. The suits haven’t changed though. Black over white with royal blue ties. My suit is faded. I really should have bought a new one.
“Man we’re protecting is called Maximillian Brant. He’s the head developer of this project Arkotech are unveiling and he’s smarter than all of you put together. That means he’s important. It also means there’s probably people looking to kill him, and how better than to do it at the most public of events.
“There’s going to be news crews everywhere and even more people recording the whole thing on their PDs. It’s going to be chaos. The good news is that he’s only going to be on stage for ten minutes as he tells everyone about this fancy new technology. After that it’s over to some marketing chump, and we just have to make sure Brant is back in the Ark. Safe and sound.”
“What is it? The tech?” asks Iago. She’s the other new member of the team. I guess she’s fairly new to private security in general. One of the first things Langdon ever taught me; don’t ask questions.
“Automatic kitty litter cleaning tray,” Langdon says with a shake of his head. “I didn’t ask. They aren’t about to tell me. Whatever it is, it’s hush hush enough for them to organise this damned song and dance for it. They’re not about to leak it to grunts like us.”
Iago shrugs and looks a little sullen. She’s young, fresh from the military by the looks of her. Probably served a single tour on Mars before realising there’s far more money to made in private security and far fewer bodies to bury. “Had to ask,” she says.
“No. You didn’t.” Langdon turns away before Iago can reply. “But you did just volunteer for stage duty.”
Langdon gives us all our positions. Two of us on the stage, two of us back at the entrance to the Ark, and six of us escorting Dr Brant from the building to the stage and back again. It’s a lot of security for a press conference given that the entire building and the park is surrounded by a fence and a small army of armed guards. My job is one of those escorting the doctor. It’s not surprising really, it’s one of the easier jobs. I’m basically a human shield with a gun.
Iago and a young man named Petros are deposited on the stage. They’ll be stuck there from the beginning of the conference all the way to the end. It’s the worst job of the lot. Long hours, rigid posture, determined concentration. It’s their job to watch the crowd, to see threats before they turn into threats. I don’t envy them.
The rest of us are marched up the front entrance to the Ark. We’d all look suspicious in our matching suits, if not for the rest of the security in their matching uniforms. We look professional. We look dangerous.
Langdon leaves us there. He heads inside the Ark to liaise with their security and to meet with Dr Brant. I wish I could go with him. Maybe Dr Brant can authorise sticking me in a harvester.
Chapter 11
Envy: Seditious. Whispering. Poisoning. Envy doesn’t sell. No one wants that little voice in their head telling them to want what others have, to feel like they’re entitled.
I have time to think. It doesn’t do me any good. Standing apart from the others on Langdon’s team, I know only two of them. They don’t know what to say to me these days, and I don’t know what to say to them. The others are new faces. They’re all part of a team. They’ve been working together for years. They have trust, friendship. Old stories to drum up. It leads to easy conversation between them and it excludes me.
I think about everything I’ve experienced in the past week. All the emotions still bottled up inside. The terror of the nightmare and the metallic shine of the cleaver. The shock of finding Pascal’s workshop attacked. The sadness of seeing my friend dead. I think about the joy of the taste of hot coffee. The hope that Kendall will recover. The hope that I might find out who killed Pascal and why.
I’d almost forgotten how dull private security can be. For every second of action, there’s an hour of standing around and waiting. That’s exactly what we were doing now. I can hear people setting up the band’s equipment on the stage. I can see people being admitted into the park to watch the press conference. The security at the gates are letting people in slowly, patting them down and searching their equipment, checking passes.
“This is a lot of security for a press conference,” I say. “Have threats been made?”
Dansen laughs. He’s one of the two I know from four years ago. Big and ruddy cheeked and always smiling. We were never close, but at one time I considered him a friend. I’ve been out drinking with him more than once. Feels like a lifetime ago.
“There
’s always threats, Garrick. You know that.”
“Not everyone agrees with emotion harvesting,” says Smith, a tall woman with hard eyes. “Some people find the whole idea to be offensive. A crime against humanity.”
“Ah, leave him be, Smith,” Dansen shoots me a wink. “Garrick made a choice. Under his circumstances, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have made the same one.”
Smith narrows her hard eyes. “What circumstances?”
Dansen takes a deep breath and looks at me, the apology obvious in his eyes. I wish I didn’t feel anything. But without the regular harvests, the old feelings of guilt and shame are coming back every time I think about Summer. I didn’t deal with them back then, I couldn’t. I just buried them. Had them taken from me. I’m still not ready to deal with them now.
“I killed my daughter,” I say, staring hard at the floor and taking a deep breath, hoping the tears wouldn’t come. “I shot her. For one hundred and twelve seconds she was dead.”
The others were silent. Dansen and Bridges already knew, but they have no idea how to respond. It’s part of why we aren’t friends anymore. They simply didn’t know how to deal with me back then, and still don’t. Some of the others look shocked. Smith looks hard.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because I didn’t see her.”
The main door of the Ark opens and a well-dressed man with spectacles and a fedora strides out surrounded by three security guards who eye us and give respectful nods as they pass. I’ve never been so happy for an interruption. For a moment there I was about to bear my most hated emotional attachments in front of a group of strangers. Not anymore though. I push down the guilt and the shame, bury them again.
The security guards escort the well-dressed man to the stage and another group exit the Ark. These ones are the band, that’s unmistakable. Wearing jeans and leather and trendy t-shirts with slogans on them. They’re also wearing make-up and their hair in artful designs. Don’t even acknowledge our presence as they’re escorted towards the stage by yet more security guards.